


Vodkova

by Emberglade



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depressive Episode, One Shot, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 12:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18916621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emberglade/pseuds/Emberglade
Summary: It was experimental at first. Just a taste. It wasn't supposed to go any further than that.





	Vodkova

**Author's Note:**

> yes all my fics are named after songs

Winters were the worst for Moomintroll. He would find himself up insufferably late, staring at the ceiling as birds tittered before the morning had even begun. He wouldn't be able to fall back asleep, awake months before he needed to be. The first year it happened, it was silly. Fun. The second year, it was a problem. It was boring. And lonely. 

While the first winter alone, Moomin went out to explore, the second he couldn't will himself out of bed. He found himself spending two days doing nothing but laying there, staring at the wall by his bed with empty eyes. He missed people. He missed the other Moomins and Little My and Sniff and Snufkin and honestly, even Stinky. He missed noise. The clamor of people. All of it. He was lonely.

And on that third day of winter, he crawled out of bed, hobbled stiffly down the stairs to the main room.  _What to do?_ There had to bed  _something_ to fill the winter.

That's when he found it. Poking around the cellar for a fun game or a ball. The crates wedged in the corner.

Papa's rum. 

It was pure, childish curiosity. He just wanted to see the bottles. At least, that's what he convinced himself. No more than a mere preteen, weeding into the forbidden boxes his father dipped into on occasion. They glittered seductively, dressed in smooth grey labels. Two bottles were recorked, sipped from during a party or late night writing session, mayhap. Moomin pulled one out. The thick, glistening glass rubbed against his heavy paws, twinkling in the dim cellar light with unspoken promises. It swished secretly.

He had no idea what compelled him to take a drink. 

Pulling the cork out with his now-developing claws, he lifted the class to his lips. It clank against his teeth. The fluid was acrid, sour, and left a warm burn along the edges of his tongue to his throat. It was disgusting, pulling a gag from the small troll's body. He held it away, displeased. But he figured that another drink would make it better. Maybe when he started feeling it, it would taste good. So he drank a little more. Forcing a few more sips, no more than a mouthful in all, he recorked the bottle and set it back in the crate, head feeling like it was being stroked by bumblebees. He lay on the cellar floor, staring at the ceiling.

That was naughty.

But it felt nice. To do something dangerous. It was new and exciting. And he had already forgotten about his loneliness, just from the adrenaline rush that came with drinking. Lovely.

* * *

 

But then he couldn't stop. By the end of the first month of winter the bottle went from being 3/4 full to being empty. He stashed it under his bed, next to an old coat and Snufkin's harmonica. He would spend hours laying on the floor, a new bottle under his arm and his eyes unfocused and fuzzy.

His brain filled with cotton. He forgot all about missing Snufkin and could only think about the rum. How he would get it open, drink a few gulps, then a couple more. How he would find himself hours later, body warm and tingly, hours melting into seconds and sleep. Everything was beautiful when he was intoxicated.

He forgot to eat, to sleep, to drink water.

He was so dry, so hungover, every morning. Every night. Eventually the days melted into one brown and liquid blur. The hard wood grain of the floor met his fur, stroking him in and out of sleep. Sometimes he would stumble to the cellar for more, or to the kitchen for a glass of water. he never left the house. Eventually, he didn't bother getting up.

Eventually, a few sips turned to a few gulps, which turned to half a bottle.

It was only when he felt the nausea climb his throat that he realized this was a lot less fun than when he had started. But the vomit dribbling down his chin distracted him.

* * *

Little My found him on the floor of the bathroom. He lay with one arm under his head and another curled protectively around a glass. 

"Moomin?" She pattered around her friend, eyebrows furrowed. Maybe he had slipped back into hibernation while getting a drink of water from the tap. She expected him to be up already, since he woke up early last year. But this was new.

She shook his large shoulder. "Moomin!" she hissed. His eyes cracked open.

"Oh." he closed his eyes and rolled over, tucking the bottle under his stomach. "Yes, My?"

Little My sat on the closed toilet. "What're you doing?"

Moomin hummed.

"Moomintroll?"

"My, do you ever get lonely?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"The important kind."

My thought, looking up and tapping her chin. Did she? "No, I don't suppose I do. I have so many people, and being alone is so fun, that I think I yearn to be lonely sometimes." she grinned. "Just to feel it!" 

"No. You don't." Moomin sounded sad, upset, so My changed the subject.

"Why are you on the floor?"

"It's easier."

Silence. My gave her friend another worried glance. He smelled strange. He looked strange. Matted, ruffled, and tired. Strange. Moomin sighed.

"Well... I'm going back to Too-Ticki's, if you're interested..." She stood, wandering out. Usually she would pester Moomin, ask him what he was hiding. Maybe tease him about his longing for Snufkin. But instead she picked her way over him and out the house. It could wait.

As she passed the front table, she pretended not to see the empty bottle resting upon it. That can wait, too, she decided.

* * *

Months passed. No one knew. Papa accused the missing alcohol on burglars in the winter, and Moomin didn't move to correct him. To tell him the empty bottles rest in a box in his closet, licked clean. Moominmama fret over Moomin's apparent post-winter sickness. Blamed the shakes on his fever. The vomiting on his bug. Moomin didn't correct her then, either.

He lay in bed, wishing for the rum. He was so lonely without. The withdrawal, which he would learn to name later, was killing him. He was cold, sick, dizzy. Lonely. 

Always fucking lonely.

* * *

Snufkin visited him. He came into his room quietly through he window, resting by his bed. He watched his dear friend sleep, smiling softly. He was so fluffy. Maybe he would play him a song.

He reached under Moomin's bed, where he knew the harmonica lay safely. 

His hand stroked cool glass. Curious, the mumrick pulled from the bed, much like a magician from a hat, an empty bottle. He stared at it before slowly slipping it back under. He looked back at Moomin, who moaned out in his sleep. This was no good, no good at all. He stood.

He needed to have a talk with Moominpapa.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> lol this was a time  
> It's been on my mind all day haha


End file.
